“Yes, I will. And I’ll come home as soon as I can.”
Simon knew his feelings were irrational, but the thought of her going away made him dizzy with anxiety. The morning that she pulled her suitcase from the closet and placed it on the bed so she could pack, he became so nauseated that he had to lock himself in the bathroom. In his life, when you said good-bye to people you loved, you never saw them again. He and Flora had never been separated, and it was his intention that they never would be. It wasn’t fair to burden her with his fears, so he tried to keep them to himself. But when he came out of the bathroom, he paced back and forth, scrutinizing every item she put into her suitcase.
“This would be a good time to talk to Margot and Frederick about having Edith come back here. Do you think it’s out of the question that the two of them might come with her?”
“I’ll certainly bring it up,” said Flora.
“I’m sure I could help Frederick find work,” he said. “And Margot. She’d love having you and Seema around to …”
Simon lost his train of thought.
“You’re packing two hats. I don’t see why you’ll need
two
hats. You won’t have time to wear both.”
“A lace blouse for a funeral seems awfully fancy, don’t you think?”
“And a suit no less! Are you planning to move there?”
Flora stopped what she was doing, sat down on the bed, and took his hands. He stood before her like a child, his head bowed. “Simon, sweetheart,” she said. “I am coming back. I promise you, I’ll be home as quickly as I can. I’ll write you a letter every day so you’ll know exactly what I’m doing. I hate this as much as you do. After this, let’s promise that we’ll never be parted again.
“I swear it,” he said, squeezing her hand.
“I swear it, too,” she said, squeezing back.
S
EEMA WOULD RATHER
have died than have anyone watch her pack. She threw in several of the lacy peignoirs and camisoles that Oliver had given her. They were clingy and transparent, and it gave her a spiteful thrill to imagine Flora in her flannel bedclothes trying to pretend that she wasn’t shocked by her sister’s flimsy underwear.
She packed a few simple dresses from B. Altman, a couple of pairs of trousers, some sweaters, and six pairs of shoes. She threw in Edith’s small “Courage” pillow because, while she was never certain why she had sent it, the gift spoke of an understanding between them and gave her comfort. Besides, courage was one of many things she would need for this journey.
She went into the bathroom, sat down on the cold tile floor, opened the cabinet, and pulled out the lavender tin where she kept her crosses. She couldn’t take them all, so she’d have to pick one. She knew which one that would be: her favorite. It was the one made of two slivers of gold, slightly wider than brush bristles. She’d found it at Saint Patrick’s in one of the racks in front of the pews, where the prayer books were kept. The catch was broken and she’d figured that it must have fallen from someone’s neck as she knelt praying. It was so delicate, that cross, it could have even belonged to a young girl. Seema had wanted to do the right thing and get it back to its owner, but Saint Patrick’s had no lost-and-found.
Unsure what to do, she had decided to keep it. She’d gotten the clasp fixed and had worn it under sweaters or tucked into blouses whenever she could. She took that cross as a sign, a covenant, that as long as she was in possession of it she would do what she could to protect it and, by association, the young girl to whom it had belonged. In turn, whoever was watching over things like young girls and their prayers would keep an eye on her at the same time. It was the most she dared hope for. Well, she was making this dreaded trip, wasn’t she, so that had to count for something. She took the cross and slid it into the back pocket of her suitcase.
She’d remembered the cigarettes, thank God, two cartons of them, and the flask. She couldn’t imagine that Kaiserslautern would have cigarettes, much less rum. She wished she had another one of these as she poured the rum into the one she had. She slipped these into the back pocket of the suitcase as well. Oh, and one more thing. She went through the photo album she kept in her desk drawer. There were lots of pictures of her with Oliver.
She finally settled on one taken at a lake somewhere upstate, though she couldn’t remember where. It was just before sundown, and the golden light made them look like bronze statues. They were in profile and he had his arm around her. It must have been taken years ago, because her nose was still straight then.
O
N THEIR FIRST
night aboard the ship, Seema ordered a bottle of champagne. Flora took a tentative sip, then another. Seema, well into her second glass, said, “Simon must be having conniptions that you’re here with me alone. He’s scared to death that I’m going to turn you into a loose woman.”
Flora gulped her drink. “For heaven’s sake, Simon trusts me completely. And you flatter yourself if you think he thinks you’re the femme fatale you obviously think you are.”
“Oh, that’s peachy. Then I’m not going to worry about you at all.” She opened her purse and pulled out a blue velvet case. “Take a look at this, a present from Oliver.” She handed it to Flora. “Go on, open it.” Inside was a sterling silver cigarette holder. It was long and fluted and engraved with a beautiful scroll design.
Flora studied the cigarette holder and absentmindedly bounced it in her hand as if she were weighing it.
“It’s real all right,” said Seema. “And you must read the darling note that came with it.” She handed Flora a card with the navy initials O.T. embossed in the upper left-hand corner. Flora was surprised by his feminine curvy penmanship. “Go on, read it,” insisted Seema.
Something to keep in your beautiful mouth until I see you again.
As Ever, Oliver
Seema smirked as her sister read the note. “He’s a dear, isn’t he?” she said.
Flora was embarrassed but refused to give Seema the satisfaction of showing it. “What a thoughtful gift,” she said. “And not a cheap one either.”
That evening set the tone of their crossing. There was the champagne at dinner and the inevitable well-suited men who would manage to find their way to the table and talk to both of them while always keeping an eye on Seema. Sometimes, Seema would dance with one of them, and there were a couple of nights when Flora would go back to the stateroom by herself and be sound asleep by the time Seema came back.
On their final morning at sea, Seema slept until after eleven, when Flora came in with a cup of hot coffee for her. Seema sat up in bed, her knees pulled to her chest so that she made a tent of her peignoir. She sipped slowly from the coffee, holding the cup in both hands. “Have you any idea how much I’m dreading this?”
“I can’t say I’m looking forward to it myself,” said Flora, who was starting to pack.
“All I remember are those tiny houses and the woods—like out of ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ I hope Edith will come home. And you’ll be there, course. But everyone else, they’re like strangers to me. And God knows what they’ll think of me. Can you hand me a cigarette please?” Seema pointed to her suitcase. “Back pocket.”
Flora pulled out a carton of cigarettes. Something hung on one of its corners. It was a gold chain with a cross. “What’s this?” asked Flora, taking the chain in her hand.
Seema considered confessing to Flora about the crosses. But Flora would never understand. She would assume it had something
to do with Oliver, just giving her one more reason to dislike him. So she lied and said that she had loaned the suitcase to one of her friends, a Catholic girl, and that she must have left it in there by mistake.
“Catholics are funny the way they wear their religion on their sleeve,” said Flora, placing the cross back in the bag.
“I suppose so,” said Seema, getting out of bed. “Guess I’d better start packing, too.”
It was raining when the ship pulled into Hamburg harbor late that afternoon. When Seema looked out, all she could see were the muted colors of the ship’s hull and the pier piles that jutted out of the water at drunken angles. Mist covered the gangway as she and Flora made their way down. Seema caught her heel on one of the planks and her shoe came off. She leaned over and picked it up, but the crowds pushing forward left her no time to put the shoe back on. She hobbled down the rest of the way, her stockings ripping and mud oozing between her toes. The two sisters stood on the dock for a few moments, Flora looking around for familiar faces while Seema hopped on one foot, trying to wipe the mud from the other with a handkerchief she’d pulled from her handbag. That’s how Edith found them when she came running through the crowd. “Here they are,” she shouted to Frederick, who was several paces behind her.
Flora put down her bags and threw her arms around Edith. “My, oh my, you’ve gotten so big,” she said, grasping her by the
shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. “Let me take a look at you. You’re not a girl anymore; you’ve become a young lady.”
“A fat young lady,” said Edith, patting her stomach. “At gymnasium they feed us nothing but starches.”
In the five years since they had seen Edith, she had blossomed into a woman with full cheeks and a round milkmaid form. Edith knew her aunts would notice her weight gain right away, particularly Seema, to whom she directed her next comments. “But I’ve recently taken up smoking, which everyone tells me is the secret to losing weight. So soon, I’ll be as skinny as you.”
Seema stopped fiddling with her shoe long enough to wrap one arm around her niece’s neck and kiss her on the cheek. “You’re a beautiful young lady,” she said. “Don’t worry about the weight thing. We’ll smoke together until you’re thin as a rail.”
That’s when they all turned their attention to Frederick. Next to Edith, he looked sallow and caved in. He really was as skinny as a rail—nothing like the hearty young man they remembered from their childhood. Flora put her arm around him and told him how good it was to see him again. Seema hugged him without getting her body close to his and kissed the air next to his cheek. The shoe still dangled from her hand. He asked about their journey, and they asked about his health. Edith asked about the shoe, and they all laughed as Seema tried to squeeze her dirty foot back into it. Then Flora shifted to speaking German. “So how is she?” she asked.
Edith and her father exchanged looks. “I’m afraid she is not so good,” said Frederick. “Taking care of her mother has been draining.”
It took Flora and Seema a moment to realize that he was talking about Margot, not their mother.
Frederick continued, “She’s worn out. I’m so glad you’re here to help her.”
Seema tightened her grip on the handle of her suitcase. She’d assumed her stay would be short and never considered that she’d be asked to do more than sit by her mother’s bedside.
“I must warn you,” he lowered his voice, “your mother won’t recognize you. She can barely speak and has all but stopped eating. Margot won’t give up. She still cooks her soup and bakes her favorite bread. She talks to her day and night, as if she understands. Poor Margot …”
Edith interrupted, “She’s very happy that you’ve come.” Her voice lifted unnaturally. “So are we. Frau Schultz, the woman who owns the farm next door, has fixed up a room for you. Nothing fancy,” she glanced at Seema, “but it’s clean, and you’ll be nearby.”
Seema’s stomach did uneasy flip-flops. She pictured a straw mattress and a dirt floor. Oliver had laughed when they talked about where she’d stay. “Well, wherever it is, it won’t be the Ritz, you can bet your money on that,” he’d said. She knew already that she would lie to him about the Schultz farm and make it seem more glamorous than it was.
T
HE TRIP FROM
H
AMBURG
to Kaiserslautern in the Deutsche Bahn took nearly all day. Seema watched out the window and thought that everything looked more crammed together here than in America. In America, the mountains seemed to have recently burst through the landscape; the lakes and rivers looked as if they were puddles left behind by melting icebergs. The land here was tame, smoothed at its edges. It had been used up by too many farms and too many factories and too many wars. America’s
topography seemed youthful and suited Seema much more than the dusty roads and dull palette that lay before her.
As the train slowed down to pull into the Hanover station, Flora noticed an elderly man standing by the side of the road wearing a shabby suit and a sign around his neck. She understood enough German so that she could read what it said:
I AM A PROFESSOR OF MUSIC AND I AM HUNGRY. BUY MY HANDMADE POSTCARDS
. He held the postcards in one hand and in the other a hat with barely enough coins in it to buy a cup of coffee. Flora said nothing, nor did she mention the cripples they passed along the way: men who were missing a limb or two and hobbled along on crutches. It had been nearly ten years since she’d been in Germany. Things seemed so much more desperate to her now. She looked around their compartment to see if anyone else in the car noticed what she was seeing, but Edith was still talking in that falsely cheerful way about her roommate at gymnasium, and Frederick, who’d brought a basket full of cervelat and
Teawurst
sandwiches, kept urging everyone to eat. “Come now, girls, you must have a bite of something. You want to be strong for your sister, don’t you?”
The sandwiches reeked of garlic and something sweet and smoky. Frederick spoke to them in a soft, coaxing manner, and the combination made Seema feel as if she might puke. She had the urge to say the meanest thing she could think of to Frederick. Her thoughts turned to Oliver, who was never at a loss for sarcasm, and she wondered what he would make of Frederick: a butcher, a peasant, who wore his devotion to his wife without shame. Just then, Edith turned to her as if reading her dark thoughts. “Seema,” she said, resting her hand on her aunt’s arm, “we’re about to pass St. Nikolai Church. It’s the tallest building
in Hamburg and I think you’ll find it beautiful. Look, here it is, coming up on your left.”
Seema stared up at the gothic brick structure. The sun was on its way to setting and the light burned off the baroque cross atop its spire. A feeling of relief spread through Seema’s stomach. It was the first thing she’d seen since arriving here that made her feel welcome, and she wondered if Edith sensed her pleasure. She knew Edith hadn’t pointed it out to taunt her, nor did she think that Edith had ever told anyone about her secret stash of crosses. She brought her hand to her throat and felt for her gold chain. Of course, it was in the back pocket of her suitcase, where Flora had returned it this morning. That had been a close call, she thought. Flora seemed to accept her explanation of why it was there.